


I'm going down all the way

by sharkie



Series: the filth city [3]
Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar
Genre: Dry Humping, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hand Jobs, M/M, Other, POV Second Person, Religion Kink, Sexual Inexperience, minor Exceptional Story spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-11
Updated: 2018-10-11
Packaged: 2019-07-18 07:52:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16114088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharkie/pseuds/sharkie
Summary: Holy Yearnings +1.You'dlike to smoulder under that clerical collar.





	I'm going down all the way

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place during the September 2018 Exceptional Story, _For All the Saints Who From Their Labours Rest_ , but no knowledge is required to understand it and it doesn't reveal much of the actual plot. Title is nominally from 'Highway to Hell' by AC/DC, because I think I'm funny. 
> 
> i will get back to writing genfic, I swear

No tea carts lurk in the vicinity. Outside, the streets look as deserted as your carriage. The Intrepid Deacon reacts to each word and every action with obvious awe and without shame, unjaded by experience or expectation. My, it  _is_  hot in here. Are you coming down with something? He makes a wounded sound as you withdraw, gaze dark and bright in equal measure. His tentative kiss continues to tingle upon your cheek. The subsequent blistering ones have yet to fade from your lips.

Catching your breath, you peer through the window. City sights are growing less familiar the further west that the train travels. Hmm.

You've already discarded his cincture and pushed his short cassock up to his waist. You begin unlacing his drawers with businesslike detachment as you speak in a steady, completely reasonable tone. Perhaps you should consider your options, you suggest. The Deacon is unlikely to embark on a similar journey in the near future. It'd be a shame if he misses the view.

His face flushes scarlet. "I rather like what's in front of me."

Oh, but you _insist._

Minutes later, the Deacon's breath fogs the window; you wipe the condensation with your free hand while the other ghosts over the head of his exposed cockstand. You admonish him for defeating the very purpose of your position. Hasn't clerical service taught him better? He stammers a blissfully mystified apology and presses his forehead to the glass. You glimpse his reflection, his eyes fluttering between shut and hazy half-lids. Then you say his name. He chokes yours in response, and your fingers close around him.

A gasp - of genuine surprise, or for much-needed air, you don't know. Both sound plausible. You slide your hand back and forth, admiring his prick over his shoulder, pretty and throbbing as you smear it with the copious fluid leaking from the slit. 

His head bows at a wave of pleasure. He's on his knees on the cushioned seat, insouciant with the pure trust rarely achieved by unquestioned ritual. Praises and wordless sighs fall from his lips. You have reasons to envy God, and they're all in your hands, warm and solid and squirming with tangible promise. So, really, one could argue that He ought to envy you. 

The Deacon swallows, yet his voice rasps. "What about-" 

You grab one of his hands and drag it towards your sex, still covered by your drawers. He's had a profound effect since he first blushed at your flirtation. He moans, sincerely surprised; his fingers seek to discover more, and he almost whines when you push them away. Later! After all, Society types don't eat their appetizer and their main course at the same time. You reward his shaky agreement with a sudden twist of your wrist, which he chases with a startled hiss.  

Without warning, you tug the steel cross hanging from his neck. He groans, whimpers - you barely register his request before you're inserting the cross into his mouth as instructed. He bites down and muffles cries into it while he fucks his prick into the tightness of your fist in short, irregular jabs. The poor boy seems determined to embed himself in your flesh. You urge him to savour it, loosening your hold, rotating your fingers as if they may break. The teasing lightness of your touch goads him to - good Lord, was that a  _growl?_

Consciously or not, the Deacon has laid a hand over yours. You ask him to demonstrate his usual technique. He freezes. Well, he lives in the most risque part of London. Nobody could blame him for ever spitting in his palm and wringing out an orgasm in a few furtive strokes, gnawing his lip to avoid blaspheming. Or perhaps he forbids crisis. Onanism is a sin, but no seed is wasted as long as it's unspilt - you squeeze his full bollocks to emphasise your point - if anything, resisting temptation from his beautiful hands must be proof of his dedication.  _You_ would certainly fail. You would fall from grace like a guttering morning star, land in a fiery crash and moan the entire time. The argument is less theologically sound than you'd like, but how can he retort? Quote Scripture while dripping over your fingers? Honestly. 

You hear his cross _clink_ after he spits it out. He angles his head, slightly, to face you. They say the eyes are the windows to the soul. That can't be true. Windows still divide. Beyond the anticipated anguish and adoration, there burns a fire that steals what scant air you breathe. The space between you continues to smoulder even as he turns back around and remarks that the scenery is surprisingly quaint. You concur, right as he knocks your hand away so he can frig himself. 

The Deacon is as fervent in self-pleasure as he is in formal worship. And much sloppier. He cups his balls with one hand, the other wrapped around his cockstand. A soft rumble builds in his throat. Hastily, he pumps with endearing inelegance - racing towards crisis without appreciating the potential twists and dips, without lavishing attention elsewhere. He thrusts into the blur of his grip as if he enjoys reckless abandon itself and worries that guilt will catch him. Your own pulse accelerates upon deducing that he has indulged, but not often, nor for long.

You coo at him and scratch his scalp, praising his passion. You offer to intensify his ecstasy until he forgets who he is. His faith in you defeats his desire for quick release: he plants both hands on the glass and shudders as you take over. From what you gather from his broken sentences, he alternates between gazing at the hinterlands of Hell and watching you play with his prick. It is unclear which sight poses a greater threat to his piety. 

Purring, you press your whole body against him. He jerks at the contact as if he's been lashed. Fingertips dance up his hot length, to close over the head. A plea echoes through the carriage, needier than a psalm, demanding like divine silence. Your free hand strokes his side. His shivers deepen. He is so real, so responsive. Your lips brush against his cheek, at the shell of his ear, down his jawline. A thumb rubs his frenulum in maddening little circles. Soothing shushes merely turn every other word into a ragged breath. True, you do not give right away. But your mercy is generous. If he could find the presence of mind at this precious moment, he might pledge his heart to you. You ask for nothing - you can take everything - and the Deacon spills into your palm with a strangled, exultant noise that's surely more incriminating than actual damnation.

He turns and immediately kisses you. Then he laps at your hand, cleaning spunk off the back of your knuckles and the skin between your fingers. 

That settles it. You must get him into bed. The Deacon quirks an eyebrow; something new marks his face, happier and heavier all at once.

"I believe we just...?" No, you correct him,  _bed_. This is a seat. He grins. "Well, then, lead on."

You tumble onto one of the carriage's beds, landing in a tangled, delighted heap. Only a hoarse reminder makes him pause to draw the curtains behind him. You roll on top and lick traces of come off his lips. The beginning of his question dies as you start rutting against his naked cock. 

"Oh my God," says the Deacon, faintly.

You haven't removed your clothes, but you've shucked patience. Rapid friction rouses him back to hardness. He can feel the heat of you through your partially unlaced drawers, and he struggles to meet each thrust, overwhelmed by your enthusiasm. But he tries. Oh, how he tries. He clutches you with a soft - yes, that was definitely a growl. You take his hands to show him where to touch, hint at how; how much. Yet you don't comment with guidance. Instead, you relish the way that he studies your face throughout: thrilled at discovery, and at great pains to reconcile it with the reality he knows. 

The inquisitive gleam never leaves his gaze. In fact, it seems to sharpen the closer you climb to crisis. He expects a revelation. You realise, with some shock, that it may not come from you. 

Pleasure emanates throughout your body, builds to the brink of bursting. You warn that you're going to spend loudly, messily, and so near his prick that you'll probably sully it further than he's already dirtied himself. His begging breaks into laughter. He bucks upwards, panting and grappling for any part of you that he can reach while you bend to pepper his forehead with kisses. An exquisite convulsion seizes your senses when he caresses your cheek. He's nearing another peak as well, eyes unfocused yet glued to yours, voice pitching higher from newfound devotion.

"Hold me, hold me, hold me..." Who are you to resist? 

Afterwards, you smooth the Deacon's damp hair as he continues to tremble beside you. Breathless words bounce off your comprehension. He stares at your hands clasped together, then at your face; curious, yet cannier than you'd expected. You pretend to fixate on the window, at the few false-stars still glittering through growing smog. It's a long way to fall. 


End file.
